


Just Like Him

by RenaRoo



Series: RvB Angst War [3]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 02:39:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4462235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenaRoo/pseuds/RenaRoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carolina is seeing parallels to her past in the armies of Chorus, but they're not the ones she wants them to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Like Him

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/gifts), [the-crimson-question](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=the-crimson-question).



> Prompt: ( the-crimson-question + sorta goodluckdetective ) just running this by you. Izzy shot me an angst prompt where Carolina sees York everywhere. It’s gonna be Palomo heavy when he starts acting like a younger version of York and Carolina can’t escape that.
> 
> A/N: Truly this war is just pain in its finest form.

Sleep is difficult to attain on a military base. 

Carolina rolls from her side and gazes at the dank ceiling of her bunk and just imagines that it’s new, fresh, rocked by the void of space and the dull thud of music from the rec room. 

It’s never quite there. Just close enough to be a throbbing reminder of what’s been lost.

“A long night, C?” Epsilon whispers in her ears.

“A long night, Epsilon,” she agrees before rolling off he bed. 

She wanders Armonia for now. They have to wait for their next raid to be cleared by both Kimball and Doyle, and getting those two to agree is a difficult task.

Carolina tries to stay away from politics, but she might step in just to get the ball moving. 

She doesn’t like staying place for too long. Hasn’t since the crash. 

“What are we running from, C?” Epsilon doesn’t ask.

“I don’t know,” Carolina doesn’t answer. 

But they’re both thinking it. 

* * *

Washington has taken drill sergeant the way her precious rookie never should have.

Five AM and she can hear the rapid fire of the training room, the clatter of sprints, the slam of the mats. 

There’s too many memories in a training room for them, but Wash seems glued to his position, training these Chorus soldiers until their knuckles are bleeding, teaching them to _survive_ in a world set out to wipe out their existence.

Normally she doesn’t take it upon herself to visit the room, but a few sleepless nights and months of lost conversation have her reaching for that Freelancer familiarity.

Really the only one she has left to understand is the little brother she never had.

“ _Touch_ the line, Bitters! _ANOTHER_ lap for the whole team!”

The smirk that grows on her lips feels good as Carolina enters the gym, she begins to think that maybe her decision to drop by wasn’t the worst in the world.

Wash is standing in the center of the gym, full armor, rifle on hand, with his back to the entrance. Like a true Freelancer, though, his head tilts toward her as she enters and returns to directly ahead after the threat is assessed.

She approaches Wash, stopping short so she can watch the soldiers groan but complete their orders.

“And here I thought your comfort rested with rubber duckies and skateboards,” she says slyly.

“Only in recreation,” Wash says back, failing to rise to the bait. 

“Who are these?” she asks. “Kimball’s soldiers?”

There’s an amused shuffle from Wash’s end. “In a sense,” he responds. “They’re... well. They’re the Lieutenants of _Capains_ Caboose, Grif, Simmons, and Tucker.”

Carolina turns to face him more directly. “You’re kidding.”

“They were desperate,” Wash replies curtly. He draws his shoulders back as he calls out. “Laps done? Good! Head to the targets!”

Three of the four drag themselves into doing just that. But one, tan and turquoise amusingly enough, stays where he is, still panting and heaving. 

“Lieutenant Palomo,” Wash barks, “is there a _reason_ for you not joining your squad at the shooting line?”

“Yeah, uh,” Palomo manages to stand fully, knees shaking slightly. “Well. It’s just. I was considering... since my aim has been shaky lately--”

“You’ve consistently and amazingly decreased your score each training session,” Wash says flatly. 

Carolina raises a brow.

“I think my skills are probably better honed in other military departments,” Palomo decides, hands on his hips.

Wash makes an aggravated noise that Carolina has learned more and more to associate with her old friend. “As _in?”_

 _“_ Oh, you know, anything!” Palomo continues, increasing in pep with each word. “But I was thinking like... espionage. Some real covert, special ops looking stuff!” 

“Really?” Carolina snorts.

“What kind of positions would you take?” Wash says, voice harsh though years of knowing him lets Carolina be privy to the certain levels of amusement he’s taking from this. 

“I-I don’t know,” Palomo says, rubbing at his neck. “I’m good at something. I’m certain of it! I have plenty of skills we... just have to find. Like. Maybe I’m actually a martial arts prodigy. Or I secretly have untapped super hearing. Maybe I’m really good at picking locks--”

Immediately, Carolina feels her heart sink. Wash tenses beside her, a slight turn of his head toward her. 

Carolina tightens her hands into a fist. 

“Think you’ve got what it takes to be a lockpick, huh?” she asks, biting down on each word. 

Not quite sensing the atmosphere, Palomo swells up more. “Sure!”

“And that won’t need any other combat skills... right?” she asks, approaching him. “If you open a door and find that enemies are on the other side, I suppose you’ll just let _other_ specialized soldiers handle them. Or just allow them to sneak up on your squad. _Right?_ ”

Immediately, the lieutenant began to shrink in on himself. “Uh, well, I suppose.”

“Here’s the fact, _kid,”_ Carolina hisses, “You’re in a war. Whatever hang up you have about your _aim_ isn’t going to be bad for you. It’s bad for _everyone_. If you want to concern yourself with other skills, you best be _damned_ to improve being a soldier before that. It’s what a _real_ lockpick would do. Is that understood?”

Palomo straightens. “Y-yes, ma’am.”

“Get on the line,” she warns, watching as he scurries to do just that.

Wash steps closer, looking at Carolina warily.

“Are you alright?” Wash asks.

She narrows her eyes, watching Palomo’s poor form and poorer aim. She doesn’t feel fine, but she doesn’t feel sick again. She’s just numb. 

“Tell me about this Palomo,” she orders.

* * *

Carolina watches for day after day.

The excuse looms that Doyle and Kimball still haven’t chosen the next attack party. But while Tucker and Sarge express their impatience loudly and without hesitation, Carolina never quite joins them.

This, of course, is completely at odds with the norm. Carolina has never been the most patient among them when it came to reassignments.

She watches the lieutenants train, the way Jensen jovially puts Palomo’s advances down, the way camaraderie is loudly bolstered between Andersmith and Palomo, the way teasing aggravation grinds the rough edges between Palomo and Bitters. 

If Wash is bothered by her appearance in the training room, he’s not let it be known. Even though Carolina can still catch his perplexed expression toward her as she concentrates hard on the lieutenants.

Epsilon murmurs in her mind, but mostly remains quiet and observant with her. 

“What are we doing here, C?” he wants to ask.

“What feels right,” Carolina never wants to answer.

But they both keep thinking it. 

It’s nearly a week’s worth of watching when Carolina lays in wait outside of the training room. As usual, Palomo is a few steps behind his team. 

“Lieutenant Palomo,” she calls from the wall she’s leaned against.

He stops, turns a bit surprised, blushes at her appearance. 

“Oh, uh, hello, Agent Carolina,” he stammers.

“You’re a bit behind your teammates in score average,” she says pointedly.

He looks to his boots. “That’s right, ma’am.”

“I can help you improve that,” she tells him. “If you can keep up.”

He looks up, looking rocked to his core. “You _can?_ I mean, of course you can... but you _will?”_

She smirks and walks back into the training room. 

Palomo soon follows. 

“What are we doing this for, C?” Epsilon doesn’t voice.

Carolina drills the hell out of the Lieutenant, ignoring the way Wash seems to become only more and more confused. 

* * *

She never asks for Epsilon’s opinion on the matter. Even when the new orders for the Away Team are handed out and Carolina doesn’t seem particularly interested in leaving. 

“Again, Palomo,” she asserts, watches as the lieutenant aims his rifle and fires.

He’s improved. But only slightly. He’s nowhere _near_ on target.

“I-I’m so sorry,” he mumbles. 

Carolina’s eyes narrow. “I don’t understand,” she growls. 

“He’s not getting worse,” Wash asserts from behind her. “Palomo’s problem is always his confidence. We’ll have to keep building that up--”

“He doesn’t need more confidence,” Carolina snaps at Wash. 

She doesn’t even have to order Palomo to do his laps, he’s already off. 

After all, Carolina has had him in the training room day in and day out. He’s passed out twice on her. But his physical skill has improved. Just not his weapons skills. 

It’s alright. A lockpick’s aim doesn’t have to be perfect. Just good.

Wash is glaring at her. “I am very familiar with these lieutenants,” he reminds her. “I _assure_ you, Carolina, Palomo’s problem is his confidence.”

“No. It isn’t.”

Wash throws up his hands. “Are we talking about the same person? How can you look at him and say that?”

Carolina snaps back, “It was never York’s problem!” 

She flinches back at her own words, can hear the heavy sigh deep inside her brain. But Wash doesn’t seem surprised at all. 

“You can’t mold people into your memories,” Wash says darkly. “You can’t force them to relive your past. And I won’t let you try it on my trainees.”

“You can’t act like that’s what I’m trying to do!” Carolina roars. “I’m not like him. I’m _nothing_ like him.”

“I agree, you aren’t,” Wash says. “So stop acting like it.”

Carolina feels sick, but she can hear Epsilon in the back of her mind, “Why aren’t we running, C?”

She doesn’t have a good answer for him.


End file.
